


Christmas-Love For Holmeses

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Betrayal, Christmas Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Misconception, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Eurus Holmes, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Resentment, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Feels, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Right before Christmas Eve, Mycroft gets bad news. Sherlock overhears a phone call that leads to a misconception. And to fluff and smut, eventually.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just another Holmes-Get-Together fic, if you can bear another one. Not much plot but lots of thinking :)  
> Sorry for the hideous title :)

“I still can't believe it.” And Mycroft Holmes wondered why he couldn’t believe it. He of all people! He shouldn’t have any illusions…

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood nodded. “It's hard to wrap your mind around it. But there isn't much doubt left. He's a double agent.”

“As long as there is any doubt left indeed, we can't take any action.” Why was he so stubborn? Trying to find excuses? His feelings had to show on his features that were usually not giving anything away.

The lady smiled sadly. “He's your protégé. Of course you don't want to believe it. We will know for sure in two hours.”

They had set a trap for Agent Lucas 'Luke' Rafferton. A classic trap. They had given him false information. And now they were waiting for him to pass it on.

And Mycroft still hoped he wouldn’t do it. That this all had just been a misconception.

Luke Rafferton, the man he had discovered and brought into the Secret Service. He had worked with him on several occasions, and the now thirty-year-old dark-haired man had proven to be as bright and loyal as he was attractive. Not that Mycroft fancied him… Well, perhaps a little bit. He wasn’t blind after all and he did appreciate male beauty. But even if it had been a strong attraction, he would have never given into the temptation, never mixing his job with personal pleasures. Which of course meant he never experienced such pleasures these days as he was only living for his job. Only cared about his job.

And his little brother, of course… Speaking of mixing things up… No, that was definitely nothing he wanted to think about right now. Or ever, actually.

In any way the 'loyal'-part appeared to have been nothing but a ruse and it was very hard to accept. Finding him attractive or not – Mycroft had genuinely liked him, and that couldn’t be said about too many people. They hadn't been friends of course, Mycroft didn’t have any, but he had trusted him and he always looked at him fondly. And of course it irked him to no end that he had missed these developments – he, the man who had taught Sherlock Holmes to do deductions when he was a child… He felt that he had made an idiot out of himself, which was probably the worst anyone could do to Mycroft Holmes.

The lady eyed him with great compassion. “I will leave you to your duties now, Mycroft. I have a meeting with Sir Edwin about the Carlton matter. We'll talk later.”

“Yes. I will cancel my doctor's appointment so…”

“No, you will not! We don't want a repeat of last week! You should have gone there at once.”

“It wasn't a problem. It's just my blood pressure. I've run out of my medication.”

Nobody had known before this 'getting dizzy and crashing on the floor' incident that he had a way-too-high blood pressure. He saw it as a personal affront that his health was betraying him like this… Betrayal was the motto of the day as it seemed…

He had called his doctor for a new prescription but he had denied it, saying Mycroft hadn't been there for an examination for way too long and he wanted to see him first. Mycroft had fumed but there wasn't much he could do but go to the doctor's office. And he hadn't had time before due to countless meetings and had made his appointment for four pm today, the very last opportunity as the office would close the next day, which was Christmas Eve. And this delicate affair had only raised its ugly head the previous afternoon…

Bad timing. But there wasn't any good timing for discovering that a man who had seemed to be simply perfect for his work for the crown was in fact betraying the country…

“You will go see your doctor and if anything happens before you return, I'll text you,” the head of MI6 insisted.

“And my blood pressure will hit new record levels…”

“Even more important that you go see your doc,” she retorted in annoying rationality.

Mycroft sighed, almost sulking. This was all most unpleasant.

“Bye for now,” the lady said.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, talk later.”

He tried to concentrate on the newest report about the Far East but it was nearly impossible…

And the worst thing was that deep inside he even embraced the worry and the scandal should that prove true. At least it kept him from thinking about the Christmas days ahead of him, and it would make it possible to spend the next day in the office to clean up the mess. And it kept him from wishing that a certain someone would be at his side on Christmas Day instead of celebrating with his so-called friends in Baker Street…

°°° °°°

“Is it because of Christmas?”

Sherlock, who had been staring out of the car window without actually seeing anything, turned to John. “What?”

“Your mood. You're so quiet. You've just solved a monstrous case and should be full of pride and arrogance and tell me how stupid I was to not get it myself.”

“I beg your pardon!”

John waved his protest away. “You know what I mean. So does it have to do with Christmas Eve? Which is tomorrow?”

It was the first Christmas they would spend together as flatmates in Baker Street. Strange… It felt as though they'd known each other for ages when it was only months.

“Why would it, John. Christmas is for children…”

“Ah, no, not really. I love Christmas. Always have. When I was in Afghanistan…” He shrugged. “I coped there, it was okay. But Christmas… Always thought about my parents and my sister and Clara and how they would be sitting in the living room, drink punch and have it warm and cosy.”

Sherlock nodded. John didn’t talk about Afghanistan a lot. Or at all. “I understand. In such situations we cling to what we've known and liked. And it all seems so far away…”

“Yes. So… How was Christmas in the Holmes home?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Boring. Ghastly. Too much food and Father got tipsy and started telling bad jokes. Mummy reprimanded him but usually he grabbed her and forced her to dance with him and she giggled all the time. And I had to play the violin of course – Christmas songs,” he added darkly.

John smiled. “Sounds awesome. And your brother?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he must have been there too! He said something to me about your Christmas dinners…”

It couldn’t have been anything nice… “I was still a child when he moved out. Sometimes he didn’t come home even once a year. And when he did… Well, you witnessed us together. We've never got along.” He looked out of the window again. The fading light of an early London December evening. Rain. Of course rain.

“Really never?”

“Well… When he was a child and then a teenager himself, things were different. We were not that close but also not…”

“Not such hopeless idiots who love to lord over one another?”

“Sorry?!”

“Ah come on. You were not overly nice to him after the cabbie case. But before that he kidnapped me to find out if I was good enough to live with you. He even said he worried about you constantly. It's obvious that he cares a lot about you. So why are you so estranged? I mean, he doesn’t appear like the most lovable creature I've ever met but he's surely not that bad as a brother.”

The problem, among all the other things like Sherlock's past drug habit and Mycroft's general arrogance thanks to his oh-so-important job, was that there was… something… something strange… Sherlock felt something strange for his brother and had been doing so for many years. Perhaps because they had lived apart since Sherlock had been ten. When his brother had – rarely – come home, at first from university and then from his new position in the government, he had appeared more like a stranger than the time before. He had seemed to have gotten stiffer and more closed up every time. But also he had become a man with so much… grace and dignity. He had been oozing power and… charisma. Teenage Sherlock had felt disturbed by him. But then almost everything had disturbed Sherlock. His brain that never rested and never let him rest. The boys in school who called him 'freak' and mocked him and feared him at the same time.

Drugs had been the answer to feeling like someone who had ended up in a wrong life with wrong behaviour in everybody's eyes and wrong, strange feelings for his handsome older brother. But nobody else than Mycroft had put an end to this phase by forcing him into rehab. Not that rehab would have cured Sherlock from being an addict. Nobody could. But he had not overdone it anymore as it had simply been ghastly to be locked up and get petted and _encouraged_ for days on end. And then the cases had given his life meaning, and so had John with his instant loyalty and faith in him.

“My brother is a cold fish,” Sherlock said now. “Nothing gets to him. He said he cared just to manipulate you. It's all he ever does.” And why did that still bother him so much? Why was Mycroft still so present to him, no matter how rarely they met these days and how unpleasant every meeting was? All he had ever done since Sherlock had been in his late teenage years had been reprimanding him and telling him to do better; nothing Sherlock had ever done had been good enough for his brother. Mycroft didn’t give a damn for him anymore… Or for anyone obviously… And Sherlock had answered his smugness with being as nasty as he could. A really fucked-up relationship… It shouldn’t matter to him anymore. But unfortunately, it still did. But he had no intention of talking to John about it as it was pointless anyway.

“Talk about the devil! That's him over there, isn’t it?”

Sherlock followed his look and saw Mycroft walking away from a building on a lamp-lit pathway. It was a building full of doctor's offices Sherlock could make out. And his brother's face looked as if he just had got really bad news. He hadn't even opened the umbrella his left hand seemed to be cramping around, and the cold rain was pouring down on him.

“Can you stop the car please?” John said to the driver. “He looks awful,” he said in a worried tone. Always the doctor…

“He always does,” Sherlock mumbled but he didn’t mean it and it didn’t sound convincing. Mycroft was still as handsome as he had been in his early twenties. Probably even handsomer… And this thought made him cringe… But now Mycroft looked really bad… Still handsome but… devastated… not healthy…

Mycroft had taken his phone out now and was obviously waiting for someone to accept his call.

“You should get out and talk to him when he's finished with his call.”

The cab had stopped at the side of the street.

“What?!”

“Do it, Sherlock! It's Christmas!”

“Not quite.”

“Sherlock!”

“Alright, alright!”

“See you later. Call or text if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded, and then he got out of the car to reluctantly catch his brother who had now turned into the rather dark pavement with strange, unsteady steps.

°°° °°°

 _“Sorry it took me so long to take your call. The PM, you know. It's mayhem…”_ Elizabeth Smallwood sounded exhausted.

“Yes… The worst news,” Mycroft mumbled, recalling the text he had received while he'd been getting examined. He had read it on his way down the stairs and he had almost dropped his phone. Now he was in the cold, it was almost completely dark, and that described perfectly how he was feeling inside as well.

_“The worst indeed. We didn’t expect him to do that… Committing suicide… The only good news is that we've been able to handle it discreetly. No media.”_

“Not yet…”

_“He doesn't have any family. No close friends.”_

Which had made the recently deceased Agent Rafferton so perfect for the Secret Service or so it had seemed… And now it would help them keeping the lid on the matter of the man's betrayal… Everything to not make the government look bad…

But Mycroft's mood was black. “It's a disaster,” he rasped out. “I'd never thought it would end in such a terminal way… Death…” It was still so hard to believe that this promising young agent had turned out to be a traitor. And now they – he – would never get an explanation or an excuse. Of course it wouldn’t have been forgivable anyway but…

_“None of us expected that…”_

“If I had just…”

_“No, Mycroft. You couldn’t have done anything. As soon as he saw the unit, he pulled out the gun and shot himself. There was nothing to be done.”_

“It kills me.”

_“I know. He was like a son to you.”_

Was that true? Yes, to some extent… Even though Luke had been way too old to be his son. “I will come to the office now.” He had just walked and walked without even thinking of calling a car. His legs felt wobbly.

_“I'll send a car.”_

“Thanks… I really don't know how to deal with this knowledge…” Why was he so sentimental? And so open with his feelings? Not only because of the agent. Christmas. Sherlock. A feeling of loneliness he had always denied had engulfed him and as well as the nasty, icy rain; it felt as if he was all alone in the world. He had never spoken with the lady like this but she seemed to be on the other side of the universe, a bodiless voice of comfort and reason in cold and darkness.

_“It will take time. And it will require lots of investigation to get behind his motives. So far no real harm has been done by what he obviously passed on. Just try to calm down and come back safe. It's not the end of the world.”_

“It feels like it,” Mycroft said honestly. “I'll have to stop for getting my medication. Not that it will help…” He felt dizzy but rather not from the high blood pressure…

_“No need to hurry. Sir Edwin and I have already set the procedures in motion.”_

“Thanks. Oh, there's the car… See you…”

_“Yes. And I'm sorry. I wish you'd been right about him…”_

“Yes, me too…” The last words had almost been a sob.

A moment later he slipped onto the back seat of the government limousine. Neither he nor the driver, who had been busy with turning off the radio, had discovered the figure clothed in black from head to toe a couple of metres behind him, who had heard every word Mycroft had said, and the most piercing ones were echoing through his mind.

_The worst news… Terminal. Death. The question how he should cope with that. The need to get medication that wouldn’t help._

When the car had driven off, Sherlock was left standing on the pavement with his mouth open and his heart racing. His black curls were glued to his forehead as the rain was soaking him but he hardly noticed it.

His big brother had been told he would die… He had sounded so desperate…

A teardrop was rolling over his cheeks, mixing up with the raindrops.

He couldn’t have named all the feelings he was being overwhelmed by. He just knew he had to do something. He couldn’t let his brother spend any more time, let alone _die_ believing he didn’t care for him. Especially not at Christmas. He knew it wouldn’t be welcome but he would force Mycroft to let himself be taken care of.

°°° °°°

“Well, it's all done now. Time to go home and celebrate, as difficult as it may seem,” the Prime Minister said darkly. He had black shadows under his eyes.

It could have been worse – if the media had got whiff of the affair but thank God it hadn't happened so far. But it was still bad enough…

Mycroft had worked until late at night with Elizabeth and Sir Edwin, and they had got together again in the morning. They had wrapped the matter up as well as they could and now, in the afternoon, there was nothing more to be done.

Elizabeth Smallwood got up when the PM had left the conference room. “Mycroft – come over tonight. My husband will be fine with you as a guest.”

“Oh, thank you. But I don't think so…”

“You look so bad. I hate the idea of you spending Christmas on your own after all that happened.”

“I might visit my parents tomorrow.” They would be happy if he did, he knew that. But he didn’t plan to.

She was well aware of that as she'd known him long enough. “If you change your mind, let me know. I'm going to cook a lot of food when I get home and you are very welcome.”

“I thought you had a cook,” Sir Edwin threw in.

“I do. But he wants to celebrate Christmas with his family as well so I'm doing the cooking. It's relaxing actually. Especially after days like the last three…”

Mycroft couldn’t even hear the word anymore. Christmas was for little children or silly people who had never grown up. He didn’t really have any good memories of this holiday. Not after leaving home at least. He only recalled Sherlock's sulky eyes and rotten mood and nasty remarks.

When had they become enemies? And why? He assumed it was his fault. He had left home early, the work and living on his own had changed him in many ways, and he had not been there for Sherlock anymore. Not because he hadn't wanted to but there hadn't been an opportunity, and apart from the lack of time, it was hard to wrap your mind around the fact that you're feeling more for your adolescent brother than you should. Especially for someone who didn’t feel anything for anybody else.

So he had watched them getting estranged more and more and had even been kind of grateful for it. It meant that Sherlock wouldn’t sense his feelings. But it had killed him to see him destroying his life with drugs. More than once Mycroft had dragged him out of drug dens. He had exploded every time, scolding Sherlock for being such a loose cannon, for wasting everybody's time and his own life. Until he'd had enough and had forced him into rehab.

Probably he should have offered him advice and comfort, not only harsh words and impatience. Perhaps they wouldn’t be like cat-and-dog now whenever they met. But even if he had felt like doing this in his wrath about Sherlock being so careless, he wouldn’t have dared. Sherlock could have sensed something…

Over the years Mycroft had learned to control his feelings for Sherlock. There was no danger of showing them anymore when their paths crossed. He had perfected the image of the Iceman. But Sherlock didn’t give a damn about him, probably because Mycroft had abandoned him in his youth, or so he had to feel. If he felt or thought anything about him at all. He certainly hadn't anymore since he had found John Watson. But it was okay. John was looking after him, making sure he would eat and stay sober. It was all Mycroft wished for Sherlock.

But sometimes it bloody _hurt_ to not be important for him at all… It hurt to be treated with contempt and arrogance. Because he might be able to hide his feelings but they hadn't vanished even slightly. And he had tried hard to get rid of them… before he had finally accepted that they would never leave him.

In short, their relationship was a mess and would always be a mess.

“Shall I give you a lift, Mycroft?” Elizabeth interrupted his cheerful thoughts.

“No, thanks. I will have to buy some groceries.” Mycroft didn’t have a real housekeeper, only someone who took care of the floors and the laundry twice a week.

“Well then. I hope you'll be okay. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.” They shook hands, and he said goodbye to Sir Edwin – Anthea had not had to come in today – and then he called for a car that would bring him to _Fortnum and Mason_ and then home for another lonely Christmas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits his brother on Christmas Eve.

Mycroft had brought two very tasty roast beef sandwiches from the grocery store and some food for the next two days. He had provided himself with a generous drink and sat down in his armchair, chewing on a sandwich and sipping at his whiskey. He had not switched on the telly and the light was dim in his large living room.

He could have worked on a report. He could have gone out. Instead he was just staring into nothingness and let the depression fill his heart. He had never been one to agonize over missed opportunities – except matters regarding his brother – but he couldn’t help but wondering if he could have kept Luke from becoming a traitor. If he had listened more closely or observed better… It was pointless and he knew it but the death of this young man was weighing on his soul every bit as much as the deceit.

He must have dozed off over his dark thoughts when the doorbell startled him. Elizabeth, in all probability. Hopefully not his parents with a surprise visit… He thought of ignoring whoever had appeared at his doorstep on Christmas Eve but when the doorbell rang for the second time, sounding more impatient, he slowly got up and took a look at the camera feed. And narrowed his eyes. Was it Christmas? Oh, yes, it was…

He stalked to the door, wondering what was going on, and opened up with narrowed eyes. “Hello?” he said.

“It's me,” Sherlock said, sounding irritatingly insecure and looking perished.

“Um, yes, I can see that.” He only now discovered the two large bags next to Sherlock's feet. “Are you going to move in with me?”

Sherlock blushed in the pale light of the front door lamp. “Not quite. I mean…”

“Listen, Sherlock, this is not a good time.”

“I know. That's why I'm here.” A stubborn undertone had appeared in the deep baritone. Stubborn and strangely desperate.

“You know?! Who told you?!”

“Nobody, I mean…”

“Ah, I don't want to know it.” Damn security leaks… But this was _Sherlock_. He could hack into anything…

“I'm so sorry,” Sherlock more or less whispered, and damn, was there a tear in his left eye?

“But why? What's it to you?!”

“How can you ask me that?! Well, I know we haven't got along for ages but… you're still my brother!”

Mycroft shook his head. “It's not a tragedy, Sherlock. I mean, of course for…”

“Not a tragedy?!” Sherlock interrupted him. And then he grabbed his obviously heavy bags and stormed past Mycroft, who made a step to the right in the last second before his brother could knock him out. “You can't deny me spending Christmas with you. I'm not going to leave you alone with this.”

Mycroft felt as if he was hallucinating. Since when did his brother care about his feelings? How could he know about them at all? Even if he had found out about the Rafferton-affair, it was a large step to expect him to be devastated about it. He would have thought he was still asleep and dreaming had the icy wind not tousled his hair and made him shiver.

“Have you told Mummy?” Sherlock asked while they walking through the corridor as Mycroft had closed the door behind him and was following him because what else should he do?

“No. She will call tomorrow I assume but of course I won't bother her with it.”

“Not bother… Are you out of your mind? She has to know about it!”

“I really don't think so…” He broke off, feeling more and more as if he had fallen through a hole in the reality, ending up in a bad soap opera.

Sherlock glared at him, then he huffed and entered the living room. “Oh, you already had dinner. I wasn’t sure when you would be at home…” After impatiently taking off his coat, flinging it onto a chair, he unpacked one of the bags, presenting wrapped food from exactly the same store Mycroft had shopped in earlier. “I suppose the sandwiches will still be edible tomorrow. And I brought some groceries for the meals I will cook tomorrow and on Boxing Day. Let me just store it.” And then he disappeared, obviously heading for the kitchen.

Mycroft sat down in his armchair again, his brain rather dizzy. Sherlock was here to stay for Christmas. To spend him comfort? To, God forbid, cook for him?! Where had this come from?

“I brought some dessert for later. Chocolate mousse,” Sherlock informed him when he stormed back into the room.

“Ah, so you can mock me with my weight when I eat it,” Mycroft mumbled, probably just to try to get back on familiar ground. It had been almost automatic. And it didn’t go down well.

“Why would I!” Sherlock all but screeched. “It never made sense and now… You should eat everything you like! Tons of it!”

“Do you really think it will help?” Mycroft asked in wonder. Since when did his ascetic brother think that fat and sugar were the answer to anything?

“No! But… Why denying you anything now that it's too late,” Sherlock rasped out, desperation shadowing his beautiful features.

And finally, embarrassingly late, Mycroft realised that they had been talking about two very different matters. And now that his brain had started working again, he deduced what must have happened. He recalled his side of the phone call with Lady Smallwood after coming out of the doctor's office. He hadn't seen anything of Sherlock but he had obviously been there.

“Oh, Sherlock. You got it totally wrong,” he said, feeling strangely disappointed, relieved and touched at the same time. “I'm not going to _die_ … Well, obviously I will do someday… But hopefully not anytime soon.” For just a moment he had considered letting Sherlock going on believing it. Just to keep him at his side. Just to make him being kind… But he would have had to tell him soon enough and then their relationship would have been even worse than before, if this was possible. And he really didn’t know why he should want his brother to stay. Even though he did…

“But…” Sherlock slumped down on the chair opposite of him. “I heard…”

“You heard me talking to Elizabeth Smallwood about an agent who had killed himself after being convicted of being a traitor…”

“But you said something about your medication!”

“Yes, that's why I had to go see my doctor. I needed a new prescription for my blood pressure medicine. I just said it wouldn’t help because I was so upset.”

“Oh…” Sherlock bit his lip. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to such conclusions…”

Mycroft smiled. He really smiled, not having thought that possible for several days on end. “It was very nice of you to come here to take care of my… well, comfort.”

“But you're still sad,” Sherlock said with remarkable sensitivity albeit little tact.

“Yes, I have to admit it. He was my protégé and it feels very… It's just such a waste. He was bright and smart and had a huge career ahead of him… And he threw it all away and in the end he even threw his life away…”

Sherlock was watching him very closely. “Did you… like him?”

“What, as a man?” There wasn't much doubt what Sherlock had meant. They had never addressed the subject of their sexual orientation towards each other. They didn’t have that kind of trustful relationship after all… Such a conversation would have been unthinkable. And it hadn't been necessary anyway. Mycroft was gay, and so was Sherlock. It was impossible to miss, especially as they both were such smart men. And gay men, after all… Perhaps you had to be one to know one with two men being so in control of their appearances. Mycroft knew not many people assumed him to be gay. Not that it mattered. He didn’t exactly pay attention to his sexuality anymore. And he was rather sure Sherlock had never done in the first place. And he had to admit he _wished_ he had really never done… As selfish as it was.

Sherlock had nodded and was staring at him, appearing tense. There was a strange glimmer in his eyes. If Mycroft hadn't known it better, he would have taken it for jealousy…

“No. He was… attractive, yes. But Elizabeth said he'd been like a son to me, even though he wasn't young enough to be my actual son. Perhaps 'younger brother' would have been more fitting. He was exactly as old as you are…” His heart cramped at the thought. He did mourn Luke. But it would have been so much worse if he had lost Sherlock instead.

“And probably nicer to you…”

“Yes, probably. But this was all a ruse… I guess I prefer honest stroppiness and contempt over false friendliness after all.” His voice sounded bitter to his own ears and he briefly wondered if it was more about the agent or his bad relationship with Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored the part that had obviously referred to him. “Even if he was a traitor, it doesn’t mean he didn’t like you as a person.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Improbable anyway, right? I'm not exactly lovable…” Where had this come from? Why were they talking about such stuff?

“Exactly what John said before he sent me to check on you when we saw you coming out of the building…”

It felt like a slap. “Well then. Be assured I am physically fine except for a very easily controllable blood pressure problem. You can go back to your doctor and celebrate Christmas with him.”

Sherlock looked as if _Mycroft_ had slapped _him_. He got up, his face a barely controlled mask of hurt. “If that's what you want…”

After all the bickering and hurtful remarks and deep estrangement Mycroft realised that this was a crucial point. If he let Sherlock go now, their relationship would never get better. In fact it would be as dead as Sherlock had expected him to soon be…

And of course Mycroft wanted his brother to be there. No matter how much the possibility that Sherlock could deduce his wrong feelings for him worried him and no matter how much they had become strangers to each other, he wanted Sherlock to stay.

“No,” he said. “It's not what I want. But I thought you just came here because you thought I was, you know, on the verge of dying, and since that's not the case… I thought you'd prefer going back to have more cheerful company.”

Sherlock stared at him, and he tried to deceive the detective with a shield of friendly indifference. But it seemed to disappoint Sherlock so he lowered his shields just a bit, showing him that he did appreciate Sherlock's presence.

Finally the younger man shook his head. “I don't. I mean…”

“You're fine with my cheerless company?”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Not sure if I'm any better. You know I _hate_ this Christmas stuff…”

“So do I…”

“And I will probably drive you crazy…”

“You will be so bored with me…”

“Perfect conditions for two-and-a-half days spent with each other then.” Sherlock grinned and Mycroft caught himself grinning back.

He knew there was no going back to pretending Sherlock was nothing but a burden for him. The dumb boy who always needed to be reprimanded. He had never been, at least not after leaving the horrible drug phase behind. Somehow this was a new beginning. They had the chance of repairing their brotherly relationship and Mycroft wouldn’t miss out on it. He just had to be very careful not to let Sherlock see how much he really meant to him. It would be difficult…

“We will need punch,” he declared, wondering if he'd gone mad the next moment. He had never liked this sweet, heavy stuff! But somehow it seemed right. Getting drunk and warm and silly at Christmas. Sounded right about perfect after the past couple of days…

“That's exactly what I thought,” Sherlock said and took a bottle out of his bag. “There are three more…”

“You've come well-prepared.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

“Would you have mourned me?” Mycroft surprised himself and Sherlock with asking. “If it had been true?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Of course I would,” he said then. “Very much.”

“Strange… I would have never thought you still cared about me…”

“I do. I've always done… I thought you… despise me.”

“I've never done. I feared for you when you used to get high. You seemed to be out of control.”

“And you were nothing but control. Cold, efficient control. I knew I couldn’t live up to your expectations. You've become a stranger to me.” He didn’t sound accusing. Not even resigned, just matter-of-fact.

Mycroft nodded. “I know. I changed a lot during my early years in the government work. It was hard to come home and be… just Mycroft again.” In fact it had already started when he had still been studying. He had been a weird genius among goldfish. After never attending a school, it had been hard to cope with it. Sherlock certainly knew how that felt…

“I wanted Mycie back!” Sherlock closed his mouth with an audible noise after this brief outburst.

 _Mycie…_ He hadn't heard this nickname for ages. Except from his mother, but he had never liked to be called by this silly nickname by her. When Sherlock had said it… it had sounded like a benediction.

“I'm not sure if there is anything left of him,” he slowly said. In his mind's eye he saw all the hard decisions he'd had to make over the past fifteen years. Decisions over people's life or death. He had seen too much, heard too much. His heart, never huge to begin with, had been more and more wrapped into layers of ice to protect itself from the consequences of his actions. But the love for his little brother had never frozen, no matter how much he had pretended to be cold towards Sherlock. He _had_ been cold and it had always affected this one last warm core in his heart, making it twitch and ache but never freeze. And no matter how nasty Sherlock had been to him, his feelings for him, brotherly and otherwise, had never decreased.

If he'd been soppy, he might have said his little brother was his conscience. The last one he really and truly cared about.

He focused on Sherlock again, who was scrutinising him. “Not sure if he is still somewhere inside me but…”

“If he is, I'd like to meet him again,” Sherlock said, and his cheeks flushed a bit.

Mycroft stared at him like Sherlock had stared at him before. His brother gulped and looked away, his eyelids fluttering. Very obviously he was feeling insecure towards Mycroft. Which wasn't surprising as they had been estranged for so long and had just nearly got into an argument again already. But he sensed something else. Something way deeper. And he recalled Sherlock's reaction to telling him about Luke.

Could it be? Could Sherlock feel something similar unbrotherly towards him? It would explain his sudden strange behaviour whenever Mycroft had returned home from uni and later his government job. It would, dammit, even explain the drugs… If Sherlock, so young, so inexperienced and so special and strange in so many ways, had felt drawn towards him in a new, disturbing, romantic or even sexual way, it would have had a huge impact on him. An impact he might have only been able to cope with by numbing himself and being snarky and passive-aggressive towards the source of these feelings ever since.

But who was jumping to wild conclusions now?

“I'll heat the punch,” Sherlock said and basically ran out of the room with flying curls.

No. No wild conclusions on his end.

Mycroft's pulse was racing, and it was not because of his high blood pressure. Tonight and two full days more or less locked up with Sherlock in his house. Time to talk. Time to get over the resentments of the past. Time for a new beginning. And perhaps time for something spectacular. Spectacularly forbidden and law-breaking as well of course. It was madness to even consider it. It could end his career and make him end up in prison, him _and_ Sherlock. But only if anyone found out about it. And how probable was that, given the smartness of both of them?

But whatever Sherlock was feeling, he wasn't sure about it. He was struggling with it. Mycroft had to be very careful. The last thing he wanted was to scare his brother off. He would rather 'just' repair their brotherly relationship and come to a sincere truce than destroying everything because he demanded anything from his brother that he didn’t want to give.

But somehow Mycroft was not struggling with his feelings anymore. Perhaps because he had accepted that they wouldn’t go away a long time ago. Perhaps because he had gone through such darkness the last couple of days.

This was the opposite of darkness. It was warmth and promise and affection and he caught himself longing for it. If Sherlock really wanted the same, Mycroft would not back away. He would embrace it. And he would embrace Sherlock…

Sherlock came back with two mugs. “Be careful, it's hot,” he said when he handed one over to Mycroft, and when he took it, their fingers touched and it felt like an electric sizzle. And Mycroft thanked his brother by staring into the bright blue eyes and he saw that his pupils were massively dilated. Probably his own eyes looked exactly the same way. “That smells good,” he said softly, his gaze wandering to Sherlock's throbbing carotid.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked.

“On the nicest Christmas we've ever spent with each other,” Mycroft said, making his mug touch Sherlock's.

“Hear, hear,” Sherlock said in a slightly shivering voice, and when Mycroft gave him a warm smile, he hesitantly but then brightly smiled back before they both sipped at the strong punch, and Mycroft knew Christmas would be really Christmas this year.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet and trying to make sense of all of this but his thoughts kept whirling around like mad as he was shaken to the core. And probably also a bit because of the punch.

The strange feeling towards his brother suddenly had a name. Or many names. Love. Longing. Romance. Desire. Incest.

He had known that for a long time, hadn't he? He had never dared name the bundle of feelings but deep inside he had known what it was.

When Mycroft had told him that he was in fact not going to die, Sherlock had felt massive relief, or course. It had made his knees go weak.

The past about twenty-four hours had been a nightmare. When he had got home to Baker Street after witnessing Mycroft's phone call, he had told John about it. John had been shocked as well. And he had told Sherlock he had to spend the holidays with his brother, but Sherlock had decided to do so already. John would visit his sister; that had been agreed on weeks before. Sherlock had never cared about Christmas so he wouldn’t have minded staying on his own, perhaps spending some time with Mrs Hudson. But that had not been an option anymore. So he had done shopping. Food. A scarf. A warm pullover. Somehow he had felt he had to keep his suffering brother warm. Why? Because he associated him with coldness? Had he thought being wrapped up warm would cure him from whatever he was suffering from?

He had of course thought about what might be Mycroft's condition. Cancer had been his first guess. So many people were dying of it. Why should it spare his brother, as important as he might be?

He had hardly slept the previous night, wondering how he should deal with a deathly ill brother. And with losing him.

Of course they had lost each other long ago on another level. Mycie, his chubby teenage brother, had become some sort of heartless figure within the blink of an eye. Sherlock blamed the government for it. It had changed his brother so much and therefore it had changed his relationship with him. It was all-consuming and merciless. It hadn't left Mycroft any time or energy to invest anything in their brotherly relationship.

And he blamed himself. He had been nasty to Mycroft - no excuse, no doubt. But he had only been like this because Mycroft had developed into a stranger. And perhaps because he had wanted to protect his heart from the feelings he hadn't had a name for…

And now? Mycroft wouldn’t die. And he wanted Sherlock to be with him at Christmas. This was no manipulation. Sherlock had seen the truth in his eyes. And he had seen something else, too.

During their conversation he had sensed more and more that Mycroft not only cared for him but that he felt the same forbidden feelings for him that Sherlock had long ago developed for him. And he had obviously done so for about as long as Sherlock had, he assumed. Mycroft had understood the nature of these feelings and had learned to hide them behind his superior attitude and this annoying arrogance; Sherlock was sure that this transformation had been genuine but the wish to keep his sentiments from Sherlock had certainly added to it. But obviously he had not hidden them from himself like Sherlock had. He had made his peace with them even though he had naturally never considered that Sherlock would return them. But he had just realised that Sherlock in fact did, and he… liked it. His behaviour couldn’t be deduced in any other way.

And what now? How should they address this… this… elephant in the room? Sherlock didn’t have much doubt he was right about his brother's sentiments. But what if he was nonetheless? He had never been good at judging emotions. He knew John loved him but not like this. But was he really able to distinguish between the love of a friend or a brother and a potential lover? How? Sherlock had never had a love affair. He'd never had sex. He had never been interested in anyone before. And the possibility of experiencing this now and with nobody else than his own brother was highly disturbing…

Would Mycroft seriously risk that? Sherlock hadn't done any research about the current incest laws but he supposed they were still valid. And even if it hadn't been forbidden by the law, an incestuous affair would put an end to his brother's career, and he didn’t even want to imagine the headlines. The internet would implode, at least for two days… Nobody knew Mycroft or his role in the government except for an exclusive circle of people, but everybody in England knew Sherlock now after the high-profile 'pink-lady-case'. If they were discovered, the scandal would be immense. And their parents? He didn’t even want to think about them…

But of course they would have to find out about them first. And why should they? Obviously they would never be careless. They wouldn’t walk hand in hand or doing any other nonsense in public. Whatever they were about to have, they would have it here – in the safety of Mycroft's home.

If his brother was willing to do anything at all. Sherlock was rather sure he was but…

They would see. They would find out. They would get closer, in any way. They would just try to have a good time with each other; something that would have been unthinkable for certainly both of them until today.

Mycroft had been different already. He had shown Sherlock that he indeed cared. That had been very nice. _He_ was nice. Still the British Government and all powerful and strong. But not that composed, thanks to his vulnerable state because of this sodding agent who had dared betray him. Sherlock thought that this man could be glad that he was dead already… He had been jealous of his relationship with his brother and he knew Mycroft had seen it.

Mycroft wasn't as cold and reptilian as he wanted to make everybody, including (or perhaps _especially_ ) Sherlock, believe. He had lowered his shields. He wanted them to get closer.

And no - deep inside Sherlock didn’t really doubt at all how close he wanted to be with him. He could trust his judgement, inexperienced or not. Mycroft did want him. This wasn’t like John's feelings for Sherlock. This was not only brotherly love. The tone of his voice, the blown pupils, his entire behaviour – this wasn't brotherly.

But Mycroft wouldn’t make the first step. He certainly feared that Sherlock would get scared, as inexperienced as he was. He was the younger brother and Mycroft wouldn’t want to have the slightest feeling of coercing him.

Sherlock had to show him that this wasn't the case. _He_ had to be the one to act on it.

He got up and steeled himself, and then he left the bathroom to join his brother again. His heart was racing but that was okay. It was fine to be nervous. Fine even to be shit scared. But it wouldn’t have been fine to back away from the one and only chance of finding what a soppy human would have called true love because he knew there would never be another man for him than his smart, charismatic older brother, as crazy as it was.

°°° °°°

“I guess you haven't eaten much today?” Mycroft said when he came back. “I've got you a sandwich and I have to say that chocolate mousse looks very tasty…” He had also brought it to the living room along with two small bowls.

“Thank you! You didn’t have to do that… I came for looking after you, not for getting spoiled.”

“But we've just figured out I'm in fact not an invalid close to death,” Mycroft said with a wink that did strange things to Sherlock's heart.

His brother's looks had amazingly improved since Sherlock had entered the house. He didn’t look haunted and gaunt anymore. The depressed man Sherlock had seen the day before had an amused sparkle in his eyes and there was something… something _warm_ to him Sherlock couldn’t remember having ever seen on him. And he definitely liked it.

“That's true. And I guess I am a little hungry.”

“Excellent. Shall we sit on the couch and devour this and I'll look for some nice, fluffy Christmas film?”

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother, the coldest fish this side of the Thames?” Sherlock just couldn’t keep himself from asking, but the undertone in his voice surely showed no malice but friendly teasing.

Mycroft just grinned. “It's Christmas Eve. I gave him the day off.”

“Oh, if he shows up at the doorstep tomorrow, we won't open up!”

Now Mycroft even laughed. “Don't worry. I guess he might not come back so soon…”

“I hope so,” Sherlock quietly said. “I like whoever you are better.”

“I'm Mycie, I think.”

“Oh! Nice to see you again!” When he had he been with _Mycie_ last? Probably when Sherlock had been _nine_ … And this was a different Mycie. Not chubby - tall and slim. Not a geeky teenage boy - a powerful, strong man. Still kind but also… bloody sexy…

“Yes. I really think so, too.”

And the brothers shared a warm smile before they sat down on the couch, and Mycroft looked for an old film while Sherlock gobbled down his sandwich, and then they ate the chocolate mousse while watching a film he didn’t catch anything of as he was too busy being aware of his brother's body so close to his own. They were not touching, both enjoying the very delicious dessert, but Sherlock knew this was only a matter of time. And it was his turn to make the first step. And if he didn’t die of anxiety before, he would certainly make it and he knew it would be welcome. But he was still fucking frightened.

°°° °°° 

When both of them had finished up their second bowl of the heavenly chocolate mousse, Sherlock got up to store the leftovers in the fridge.

Mycroft had noticed how nervous his brother was; he had been literally vibrating next to him; Mycroft had felt it even though their legs hadn't touched.

When Sherlock came back, he looked as if he was determined to actually do something but also as if he was tremendously anxious of doing it. And Mycroft knew he had to make it easier for him – even though he was feeling the same way of course. This wasn't an easy thing to do. This would change their lives and turn them upside down. This was a ground-breaking development and it could end up disastrously. But somehow Mycroft knew it wouldn't. It was what they both wanted and had wanted for a very long time. It just felt right, as surprising as the developments had been.

Sherlock sat down next to him, closer this time, his thigh just barely nudging against Mycroft's. And Mycroft just hesitated for a second before he put his arm around his brother's shoulder. Sherlock was surprised and stiffened for a moment – before he relaxed in Mycroft's light grip and slumped against him. His body was hard and warm and it just felt wonderful to be that close to him. Mycroft's heart rate decreased and increased at the same time, knowing his touch was welcome and being aroused by having Sherlock so close. Sherlock's head was hard and heavy and edgy against his shoulder. It felt so strange and so nice.

“You're tired?” Mycroft asked him, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse.

“Little bit. Didn’t sleep much last night. Too worried…”

“I'm glad you were. I mean… I'm sorry for unknowingly scaring you like this but…”

“Yeah. I thought I'd lose you… So glad I won't. And... I never had… a word… for this.” Sherlock was looking up to him and Mycroft wondered not for the first time how anyone could have such stunning eyes.

“And now you have it?”

Sherlock hesitantly nodded.

And Mycroft remembered what he had told Sherlock about sentiment so often. “You know – I may be the smart one but sometimes I say very silly things… like about emotions.” An indirect but obvious apology. It was never wrong to start with an apology.

“Well, you're telling this an expert in saying silly things,” Sherlock retorted, and that was that. It was all that was needed right now. They would certainly talk about what had gone wrong between them in the past, but it wasn't really necessary, was it? Both of them had perfect memories. They recalled every act of coldness, every hurtful sentence, every scornful look, everything that had been nasty and hideous between them, and they always would. But both of them had just casually admitted it and therefore it was fine.

But Mycroft wanted to set this straight. “Sometimes sentiments are completely fine. Even required.” He just vaguely thought of how his sentiments for the young agent had affected him. The whole disaster seemed to be ages ago already, not healed but amazingly covered by the unexpected, beautiful developments of this evening.

“I'm full of sentiments right now,” Sherlock conceded. He still sounded scared. A lot…

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And do you feel… positive about them?” Mycroft carefully asked.

“Yes. As long as they are… welcome.”

He certainly didn’t really doubt they were - why should he in this situation? But Mycroft understood that he needed confirmation as this was truly the most important thing to have ever happened to either of them. And the weirdest. The most forbidden. The most beautiful.

“Be assured they are,” he softly said.

Still in this rather strange position with Sherlock's head leaning against Mycroft's shoulder, their eyes were locked, and then both of them moved towards each other simultaneously, and then their lips met for a split second in a first, totally chaste kiss that could be still considered as only brotherly. But when they pulled back their eyes locked again, and the next kiss was a completely different story.

°°° °°°

Sherlock had never kissed anyone before; actually the imagination of being so intimate with someone had always disturbed him. But now he realised that he simply longed for it. The first probing pressing of their mouths on one another had sent a stream of warmth through his chest, the open-mouthed kiss that was now following sent a pull into his groin.

But it wasn’t only his so far completely neglected penis that reacted to this decidedly not brotherly kiss, tasting of punch and tea and Mycroft. It was as if a hidden door in his mind palace opened up, and in quick succession he saw pictures of their past while their tongues were dancing with each other in an increasingly perfect and amazingly natural rhythm. They _had_ been close, him and Mycie, and with his mind's eye seeing clearer as ever before, he realised how much he had always meant for Mycroft, and how much he had always longed for his big brother's affection and appreciation.

Once he'd had it but way too soon and way before Mycroft had left home, a distinct sibling rivalry had affected their good childhood relationship. They had started to compete and it had overshadowed their feelings for each other. Sherlock – seven years younger – had felt stupid towards his brilliant brother, and Mycroft had done nothing to take this feeling from him; in fact he had even fortified Sherlock in this belief.

Intellectually very advanced, he had been emotionally challenged by Sherlock's admiration and wish to live up to him, and he had not reacted to it in the way Sherlock would have needed, and this had only increased when he had started his adult life in London without Sherlock, and this all had led to their deep estrangement.

Sherlock had not thought about these developments for twenty years but he could see them now. And just like this, the distance that had been between them for so long was getting closed, leaving nothing but acceptance of a past they couldn’t change anymore, as well as care and love and the knowledge that he could never be safer with anyone else than he was with his brother, who had never stopped caring for him, no matter how much they'd grown apart.

He slung his arms around the other man's neck and Mycroft returned the embrace with full conviction, their mouths busy with exploring each other while the years of resentment were crumbling between them, making way for something new, something wonderful and something Sherlock couldn’t wait exploring.

Sherlock couldn’t help but feeling extremely proud that it was this kissing that made his controlled, icy older brother panting like this, his hands frantically sliding over Sherlock's back, his heart hammering against Sherlock's chest.

When Sherlock pulled back for taking a much needed breath of air, he admired his brother's large pupils and the reddened lips.

Mycroft smiled and squeezed his waist. “Don't look so smug.”

“Why ever not? I totally messed up the British Government.”

“True indeed. What now… Would you…”

“Upstairs?”

“Yes? You're sure?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Not sure how far, you know… Right now…”

“We don't have to. Right now. Just a little… you know…”

It was a relief to witness his brother struggling with finding the right words as well.

“Tenderness?” The word came as naturally to him as the kiss even though he had never used it before.

Mycroft grimaced playfully. “Yes. Ghastly word, isn’t it?”

“No, not really. And I'm very up to it.”

“Well then. Let's get more comfortable… And Sherlock… If you don't want to go on, just let me know.”

Sherlock shook his head, shaking off the feeling of insecurity that had just sneaked into his heart. “No chance. I want this. What better way to spend Christmas than getting down and dirty and breaking some stupid laws?”

“How very brash,” Mycroft smirked.

“No, not really,” Sherlock said again. “I am scared. Not because I have doubts! But I might be totally clumsy…”

“There is nothing right or wrong about it, little brother. We'll decide what's right for us. And nobody is hustling us.”

“Right!” Sherlock kissed his cheek almost shyly and got up. “Well then. I'm ready!”

“Are you now?”

“Mostly! Don't tease me, Mycroft!”

“Sorry, dear. It's too tempting.”

“Then go on, by all means.” Teasing was fine, actually. _Mocking_ would have been bad…

“Sherlock… Thank you.”

“What for? Wait until you experienced my gauche attempts at physical closeness.”

Mycroft chuckled and there was a kind of affection in his eyes Sherlock would have killed for to see for the rest of his life. “Thank you for coming over even though you thought you wouldn’t be welcome. You would have always been, by the way.”

Sherlock nodded, a little sad. “I know that now. I wish I had understood it before…”

“Well… We've both buggered this up greatly. Let's just do better, what do you think?”

“Doing better sounds very good. I'm glad I came even though you're not about to die.”

“Having aimed for inheriting all my possessions?” Mycroft winked and Sherlock laughed out loud.

“As if. I bet you would rather give it to, I don't know – the Salvation Army!”

Mycroft smiled and pulled him close. “To be honest, no. You'll get it all.”

“I don't want it. I want _you_.” The words had just left his mouth before he could have thought them over. But thank God they were welcome.

Mycroft smiled and brushed a kiss on his cheekbone. “You have me. Come and let's make it Christmas.”

They left the living room, their hands not linked but touching every few metres.

“I've brought you presents by the way…”

“Oh! I have nothing for you! I guess cash would be a bit inappropriate now…”

Sherlock giggled. “If you put it on the nightstand for my services, then it might be…”

“Services? Sounds intriguing!”

“Why is that so easy all at once, Mycroft? Us, being with each other like this?” Sherlock asked him in a serious tone.

“Good question. Because it's Christmas? Or perhaps because Mycroft, the old, cold bastard is gone?”

“Yeah. And Mycie is cute.”

“Dear God! Nobody ever called me 'cute'!”

“Because nobody knows Mycie. Or does anyone?”

“No, Sherlock. Mycie is only there for you.”

“Good! I won't share him.”

“And he won't share his seductive little brother. He's the possessive type.”

“Fine with me. So am I.”

They had reached the bedroom, and after one long look into each other's eyes, they walked in, knowing they would come out again each a changed man.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft suddenly felt a bit silly when he was standing before his neatly made bed. He was still wearing his three-piece-suit-armour, complete with sleeve garters. He couldn’t lie down on his bed like this. But just undressing now did not feel right either.

Sherlock, standing on the other side of the bed, smiled at him knowingly. “Not that easy, is it?” But he opened his trousers nonchalantly. “Let's just get comfortable, as you said. No suits in bed, please. Mycie wouldn’t do that!”

“Right.” He started with taking off his shows and continued with sliding down the garters, seeing an affectionate smirk in Sherlock's eyes. “What?” he said, winking.

“Ah, nothing. They suit you. Like your suits. Should look strange but…”

“As I am strange myself, they are fitting?”

“Sort of, yes. But strange in a good way,” Sherlock hurried to add.

Mycroft opened up his waistcoat. He caught Sherlock's curious, heated gaze and the feeling of silliness disappeared. “I can live with that,” he said, and then he swallowed when Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. “Nice colour. Purple…” But what was revealed was even nicer - pale skin with just a tiny bit of fur in the middle of Sherlock's chest. His nipples were rosy and Mycroft imagined licking them. His cock filled out at once and he blushed.

Sherlock tilted his head and then looked down on him. And the look in his glorious eyes made Mycroft feel even more aroused.

This Christmas had been a rollercoaster of feelings for sure and it had only just begun…

He took off his shirt as well, being aware of his chest with all the fur and the slightly too strongly developed breast. Sherlock gasped when he revealed all his naked, hairy flesh but he looked far from being appalled, which definitely decreased Mycroft's self-consciousness.

Sherlock slipped off his trousers, along with the socks, and the bulge in his black briefs made Mycroft's mouth water. It was impressive, and his hand twitched as if it wanted to reach out and touch from the other side of the bed. He let his own trousers and socks follow, and then they made a simultaneous step towards the bed, and a moment later, they were sitting on the mattress, resting against the headboard, under the blanket, both men only dressed with their underpants.

Mycroft's pulse was fast and he knew it was the same for Sherlock. His brother looked flushed and wired and determined and scared and ready. But it was too fast. They couldn’t just start to… make love!

He didn’t want to mess this up. They needed to do it right. He reached out for Sherlock's left hand that was lying on the duvet, slightly shivering, and he soothingly pressed it.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled, and Mycroft could see he calmed down a bit. “Bit overwhelming,” he said, quickly nuzzling his face against Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft smiled. “Very, actually. You're beautiful…”

“So are you. _Big_ brother!”

Mycroft laughed. “Well, _big_ little brother!”

Sherlock grinned. “Nice arse, too…”

“Yours? Oh yes… So plush! It was so hard to not ogle it whenever we met…”

“I was talking about yours! Very pert! Amazing as you're sitting on it all day…”

Mycroft chuckled. “And the legwork certainly helped developing your tasty thighs…”

“Damn… This is so nice…” Sherlock sounded a tad disbelieving, which Mycroft understood very well. But no – this was not a hallucination or a dream. This was very real.

“Yes, it really is.” Mycroft put his arm around him once more and pulled him against his chest.

“I love kissing you,” Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft took this as a very welcome request and fulfilled it at once.

Kissing those wonderful, soft and uniquely shaped lips and tasting his baby brother like this was something that had already occupied the top position of his brand new and secret 'things-I-love-to-do'-list.

And then he gasped when Sherlock escaped his embrace and straddled his blanket-covered body, his crotch finding Mycroft's still decidedly hard cock at the first attempt.

“Oh!” Sherlock breathed, his eyes wide. “That feels good.”

Mycroft could only agree. His eyes fixed on Sherlock's tented pants, he raised his hands to grip Sherlock's slim waist and stroked up and down, making goose bumps break out in the go. There were still some layers of fabric between their intimate parts, but they were pressing against each other deliciously.

At a loss for words, he devoured Sherlock's almost painfully perfect body with his eyes before their gazes locked, and then Sherlock bent down to claim his mouth again, the pressure of his body on Mycroft's hard penis increasing, and it felt scandalous and lovely and arousing in the extreme.

“I used to do that before,” Sherlock stated after breaking the kiss.

“I beg your pardon?”

“When I was little…”

“What?! No!”

“Nah, not quite like this,” Sherlock soothed him. “But I remember it… Being on top of you. There was a bit more of you back then…”

Mycroft swallowed. “Don't think I… I felt like this when you were still a child…” Despite Sherlock's weight still pressing on his cock, his erection had wilted. The image was too disturbing.

“No! I don't think that!”

He winced when Sherlock gently stroked his cheek with a huge, warm hand but then he felt himself relax. Still he felt the need to explain himself. “It wasn’t before you were about… fifteen, sixteen I think.” Still too early. But then – no matter how old Sherlock had been, it would have been forbidden to feel like this for him anyway. He ignored this redundant fact. “I can't really identify a certain point.” It had been a long process for sure. But Sherlock had been already a young man, not a child.

“Neither can I. I just realised how you'd changed when you came home every time. Slimmer, more sophisticated, cooler… I thought I was repulsed by this, seeing you developing into a stranger. But more than that, I was drawn to you in a way I never understood. Until today… Well, I guess I did know it but…”

Mycroft nodded. “You were too young and inexperienced to identify your feelings back then. And then, when we grew apart more and more and I became your arch enemy…”

Sherlock grimaced. “If I don't have to hear this stupid expression ever again, it'll be too soon… I'm sorry. For so much…”

“Ask me. But perhaps it made us end up like this, who knows? We know what brought us apart. Now we can work on growing together.”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Perfectly said! And speaking of growing together…” He moved his hips and Mycroft groaned.

His cock filled out again at once. But still he felt as if they needed more… closeness before he could even think of actually doing anything sexual. “Come back under the blanket, Sherlock,” he requested.

Sherlock scrutinised him and then he nodded but he did not move. “More skin? Yeah!”

Mycroft reached out to tousle his hair. “More skin, yes. More… warmth before…” He broke off. He couldn’t explain it.

He must have sounded insecure as Sherlock's voice was serious when he spoke again. “It's too late for second thoughts, Mycie. I won't allow it.”

“I don't have any. In fact I ask you for giving me your almost naked body!”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Not almost.” And with this he rolled from Mycroft and from the bed and slipped off his pants, and Mycroft feared his eyes would gobble out of their holes at the first look at his adult brother's naked cock. It was long and generous in girth also, slightly bent to his stomach, the head pink and engorged and shimmering from wetness.

Sherlock chuckled. “Okay. I can see you're far from having any second thoughts.”

“They could as well be on the moon,” Mycroft confirmed and then he lifted the blanket. “Come to me, little brother.”

Sherlock didn’t need another invitation.

°°° °°°

The younger man immediately buried his face in Mycroft's neck, breathing him in. He smelled like body wash, tweed and deodorant; his skin was soft and warm and Sherlock knew he could stay like this forever. Mycroft's arms had come up to embrace him and he was feeling as safe and welcome as he could get.

He was glad Mycroft's didn’t back away. Obviously he was still struggling a bit with the 'forbidden' aspect of these developments. But honestly Sherlock wouldn’t have minded if Mycroft had started longing for him when he'd been a child. He wasn’t anymore! He was a grown man of thirty years and no matter how little experience he might have – he knew he wanted this. Being in Mycroft's arms was like finally coming home.

He had always been restless and had never had the feeling of belonging somewhere since he'd left home. Actually even before. With the dark days of drug use he had started feeling lost. He had found a place to live, at John's side, and he had felt more at ease but the core of his soul had still been lost.

But now it wasn't anymore. This was where he wanted to be, where he had to be. He was very happy with this kind of contact but he needed more. This wasn't enough. He longed, he craved for a more intimate relationship, and there was no doubt that so did Mycroft.

So far only his thigh was touching Mycroft's, but he changed the angle and pressed his rock-hard cock against Mycroft's pants, moaning at the touch of oversensitive skin on rather rough fabric. Mycroft groaned and his hand slid deeper, grabbing Sherlock's arse to pull him even closer.

“This is not fair,” Sherlock mumbled and without bothering to ask, he freed his brother of the offending pants so they were even. Mycroft did help him a bit by lifting his body.

“You're cheeky!” he half-heartedly complained nonetheless but his hands didn’t leave Sherlock's backside, touching and probing in a way that could only be described as breath-taking.

“We have both pretty nice cheeks I'd say,” Sherlock retorted, stroking the soft and cool skin of Mycroft's globes.

“Naughty little brother.”

“Mm-hm!” Sherlock pinched his brother's arse and pressed his front against him as close as he could. Mycroft's large dick, beating Sherlock's in length and girth, was poking into his stomach.

“Are you sure…” Mycroft started but Sherlock didn’t let him finish his question.

“Do you seriously doubt that?”

“No. But you said…”

“I know. But I want this and I need it now. We're both hard and aching. What do you want to do? Shall I get ice water to pour it over our naughty parts? Do you want to imagine your sodding Queen in a negligee to cool yourself down?”

Mycroft gasped at the blasphemy but then he chuckled. “That will render me lastingly impotent…”

“Somehow I don't believe that… I bet I could erase this picture very quickly.”

“What then? I just don't want this to be… You know… This shouldn't just be about sex.”

“It isn’t! But it's a big part of it, inevitably. A way to show you how much I want this…”

“Oh. Okay. Well then. Shall I lend us a hand?”

“Oh, yes, brother! Take the edge off it!”

“Very well…” Mycroft reached down under the blanket, rearranging their bodies towards each other.

And then his brother's long, silky cock pressed against Sherlock's, and the next moment long fingers closed around both of them, rubbing them together, soft skin on skin, and Sherlock gasped. “Oh, fuck!”

“Not quite. I believe it is called a hand-job,” Mycroft said dryly, and Sherlock giggled against his neck.

“This feels awesome!”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Sherlock wondered how many times Mycroft had done this before. And what else he had done with other men. He knew there had to have been at least a few, perhaps not lately but someday. He didn’t ask as he didn’t want to know. And they didn’t count. Only he and Mycroft counted now.

He kissed Mycroft's cheek while his groin was set on fire, and Mycroft turned his head to capture his mouth in a deep kiss while his hand was doing the most exciting things to Sherlock's – and his own – dick. It was stroking and grabbing and fondling and whenever the tip of Mycroft's thumb slid over Sherlock's slit to make use of the little drops he could feel escaping it, his entire body shuddered with pleasure. That he in fact couldn’t see what was happening seemed to only strengthen the sensation.

It wasn't as if he had never masturbated but it hadn't happen regularly. He had rarely felt the urge. And it was the first time anyone else had gotten hold of his cock and the first time anyone was fumbling with his arse, so far only with the fleshy parts, and he could have gone on being treated like this forever.

But of course it was over much too soon. At an overload of feelings and arousal, his body reacted massively to Mycroft's skilful hands, and he groaned and pressed his face hard against Mycroft's neck when the first orgasm he'd ever had in anyone else's presence nearly ripped him apart. Warmth splashed on his stomach and the pleasurable pulls in his groin didn’t seem to end. Mycroft didn’t cease stroking him, in fact he increased his efforts and then Sherlock was showered with some more hot gushes and his brother groaned loudly against his forehead before he slumped against Sherlock's sticky body. Both men were breathing fast and they clung to each other in an almost desperate way. Mycroft wrapped the blanket tighter around Sherlock and the gesture was so full of an obviously instinctive care that Sherlock caught his eyes getting wet.

“I'm sorry, Mycie,” he mumbled. Mycroft stiffened in his arms and Sherlock grabbed him tighter. “No, not for that! I'm sorry for having been so awful to you for so long, for not even trying to get behind your mask… For all these stupid remarks about your weight and your job and…” He broke off, feeling silly and whiney but he knew he'd had to say it. That they both remembered every awful word that had ever said to each other didn’t mean they didn’t have to talk about it. Probably now wasn’t a good time but it had to happen nonetheless. He felt wound up and vulnerable as if the orgasm had opened some emotional gates inside him.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft sounded deeply touched. “It's alright. _I_ have to apologise for letting you down. And I knew I was letting you down. I even… chose to because I was so… I felt guilty for wanting you when I should have rather felt guilty for going away and not being there for you anymore, and I was really a cold fish whenever we met. My work consumed me and took so much from me. I shouldn’t have considered it more important than our relationship. This is not going to happen again…”

Sherlock smiled sadly against his brother's throat. Of course it would happen again. It would already happen because they would have to live their love in the dark. Both of them had to go on with their lives as if nothing had changed.

“I can feel you don't believe me.” Mycroft sounded cautious and wary.

“It can't be like this. You'll still be the British government and I'll be the consulting detective, and we'll have to pretend we're still cross with each other.”

“True. But not towards each other. We'll meet as often as we can and we'll make as much of our time together as we can.”

“Sounds good to me.” But he didn’t sound as if he truly believed it and of course his brother heard it.

“Sherlock. I don't just _say_ that. I want this to be as special as it deserves to be and I will do everything in my considerable power to ensure it works. If you want something lasting, that is…”

Sherlock looked up to glare at him. “What, you think I'll get up now and go home and pretend it never happened?”

“No! I… I'm sorry, little brother.”

“No, _I'm_ sorry… I don't know what just happened… I don't doubt you.”

“It's inevitable. A decade and a half of resentment is not so easy to erase.”

“I don't want it! This is behind us!”

“Yes, it is. But it might raise its ugly head from time to time. It's only the first day, love!”

“Thank you…” Sherlock snuggled against him as close as he could again. “I hope you're prepared to deal with a snarky, bratty little brother who hates the Queen that occupies all your time and gets moody when you don't give him enough attention…”

“That sounds lovely.”

Sherlock giggled and Mycroft grinned against his forehead.

“I've always loved you, Sherlock. No matter how ghastly you were to me, and I know it was justified, I've never stopped loving you.”

Suddenly Sherlock's heart felt as if it was held by a tight fist. “I wish… I wish you had told me that just one time…”

“Oh, dear… I wish that, too. I guess I was too afraid you could sense that my love was not quite only the way it should be.”

“But it was, and it is!”

“Yes. If I had known you return it…”

“God… We are both idiots…”

“No! We _were_ idiots! We'll do better now! Agreed?”

“Yes. Definitely agreed…” Sherlock yawned, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue.

Mycroft rubbed his back. “Um… You know I'd love to hold you like this for all night but if we don't get up and at least refresh ourselves, we'll be glued to each other in the morning…”

“Damn… I don't want to get up! It's so warm and cuddly here with my Mycie.”

“It certainly is. But it will get sticky and nasty in a while, and you will need hammer and chisel to get rid of your Mycie, believe me…”

Sherlock grinned and sighed simultaneously. “Okay.”

It was hard to leave the bed but Sherlock had to agree it was for the better when he realised how exactly soiled his stomach was, and his brother's body hair was completely sticky. Ten minutes later they were both clean and dry after a very quick mutual shower and returned to bed. Amazingly enough, the sheets had stayed rather clean so they didn’t have to change them at once, and a few minutes later, they were cuddled up under the blanket again, both drifting off to sleep, entwined and so close in more than the physical way, and Sherlock felt safe and happy in his brother's arms, knowing it wouldn’t be easy for them to maintain this relationship and knowing they would both try their best to make it work for once and for all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sappiness comes to an end :) But for sure these Holmes boys will have it forever more! Thank you for reading! :)

Mycroft opened his eyes, for a very brief moment wondering why there was a heavy, edgy weight draped all over him. But when he started blinking into the morning sun of Christmas Day, he had already recalled that this weight was nothing else than his delectable detective brother, who now happened to also be his lover. Sherlock was sleeping deeply, his face snuggled against Mycroft's chest as if he'd never slept without him, his features peaceful and if Mycroft wasn't totally wrong, there was a slight smile around those kissable lips. His head was being moved up and down by the lifting and lowering of Mycroft's chest. The blanket had slid down to his waist, and Mycroft just had to lift it and have a thorough look at Sherlock's naked bottom – smooth, silky, pale globes with a luring dark crack between them.

He gently draped the blanket around his brother again, not wanting him to be cold.

He couldn’t have said that this was the fulfilment of his dreams as he had never even dared dream it. This seemed to have been as far out of his reach as Pluto.

The memory of the last fifteen years passed by in his mind and he saw himself and Sherlock over the course of all his brother's late teenage- and adult life. All he remembered was the look of disgust and rejection on his brother's face or Sherlock in drug houses or hospital beds after another almost-overdose or how hateful he had looked at Mycroft when he had been brought to rehab by him. He heard his brother's deep voice saying nasty, deliberately hurtful things. And he saw himself, reacting to it with cold reprimanding, scornful looks and superiority.

And despite Sherlock's brief display of, well, mistrust was a too-harsh word for it, from the evening before, Mycroft felt this was all indeed behind them. It would come up from time to time, oh yes. They would row, and they would say things they immediately regretted. But he had faith in both of them to understand that this was just the shadow of the past and that they could deal with it. They just had to be what they had never been before towards each other – forgiving, sympathetic and fond. That they both had little to no experience with relationships of any sort (even though John Watson had perhaps already had some good influence on Sherlock in that regard) was not exactly helpful. But they could deal with it, he was sure. He would not let Sherlock run from him again. Of course – if Sherlock wanted to run, wanted to find someone else or rather be on his own again than in an incestuous relationship with him, Mycroft would let him go. Sherlock was not his property. But he hoped with all he had that this wouldn’t happen.

He winced when Sherlock lifted his head. “No, brother mine,” he simply said.

“No what?”

“I heard your thoughts. I won't go away. Not today, not tomorrow and just never.”

Mycroft didn’t even wonder that he had read his thoughts. “You can't know that. This is all new and exciting but…”

“I have wanted this since I wasn't even old enough to know what this is! This is not going to change.”

“Nothing would make me happier than to be wrong,” Mycroft assured him.

“What about you? You think you can cope with me for the rest of your life?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes. There is nothing I want more.”

“Great! And now what?”

“Hm. What do you think? What is a good way to start Christmas Day?” Mycroft asked playfully.

“Oh! My presents for you!” And with this Sherlock had jumped up and ran out of the room.

Mycroft chuckled and closed his eyes. Not quite what he would have suggested. Obviously he had to work on his seductive voice… But Sherlock would be back soon…

°°° °°°

“Oh! You really shouldn’t have done that!” Mycroft looked down at the dark blue pullover he had slipped over with appreciation and gratitude. “And a scarf, too!”

“Well, the colour of the pullover fits your eyes. And the scarf – everybody needs a nice scarf!”

“That was so thoughtful of you… Come here.”

Sherlock happily obeyed and was pulled into his brother's arms once more. It had been literally hours since they had got together, and he already felt so familiar in the other man's firm grip. He let his hand slide over the soft fabric of the precious piece of clothing that looked so good on the tall man. He grabbed for the scarf and freed himself enough to put it around Mycroft's neck. “Perfect!”

Mycroft smiled. “I love it. So tell me – what would you like to have in return?”

“Nothing! I bought it to… keep you warm… You looked so frozen and lost when I walked behind you…”

“That was very considerate. But I hope you don't still pity me…”

“No. It seems you are dealing a lot better with this matter now.”

“Well, thanks to you! It's not the end of it, I'm afraid. Who knows which information he gave away that will still backfire on us…” Mycroft's face darkened and Sherlock cursed himself for bringing it up.

“You will deal with it,” he said soothingly and genuinely convinced. “And if you need any help…”

Mycroft blinked rapidly all at once. “Oh, Sherlock… I would have died for such words before.”

Sherlock nodded. The past had reached out to them once more. And it would keep doing it. But Sherlock wouldn’t have it destroying their present and their future. “I know,” he said. “I was awful to you whenever you wanted me to help you with your job. Stupid… You never needed my help!” And why did he only understand this now?!

“Well… You know I despise legwork…”

“But you have your agents for that! And your brain could have figured out everything I could think of in half the time! You came to me because you... wanted me, not my brain or my legs. Me as a brother…” Damn… It had only happened after he had started working as a detective. Mycroft would show up with a file and ask for his opinion or to catch some criminal of a higher threat than the ones the Yard needed his help for. And Sherlock had turned him off or gave him some reluctant advice in a tone he could have slapped himself for now. It had always been his brother who had come to him, never the other way around.

The sad fact was – if he hadn't overheard this phone call, he would have never searched for his brother's contact, in whichever way. He owed this all to a misconception and to John Watson. John! “Fuck!”

“What now?” Mycroft asked. He had scrutinised Sherlock but not said anything.

“John! He still thinks you're dying!” Sherlock had switched off his phone before ringing Mycroft's doorbell the evening before.

“Oh. Well, let him celebrate a bit longer…”

“What?! No! He was almost as shocked as I was! He insisted on me coming here before I could even tell him that I had decided to do it.”

“Oh. Really? I thought he hates me…”

“No. Why would he? He met you twice on the same day and that was it! Okay, you had him kidnapped and brought to a scary place but…”

“He wasn't scared at all, the brave little bugger.” Mycroft sounded almost fond.

Sherlock shook his head. “John is a really good man, Mycie. He hates nobody. You're my brother. He thinks you're eccentric and weird like I am.”

“Which is certainly true…”

“Yes. I must let him know you're okay or he'll kick my arse when we meet again…”

“Yes, of course. You'll have to go home then.”

“After Boxing Day, yes. But I'll be back for New Year's Eve.”

“Can you? What will you tell your friend?”

Sherlock stared at him but then he realised that Mycroft was not in the least trying to keep him from staying or returning. He was simply already thinking of a future in which they had to hide their love. “I will tell him that we have reconciled and will now work on having a better relationship.”

Mycroft nodded. “That might work for a week or two, but then…”

“We'll find a way, Mycie. I will not have us catastrophizing and destroying everything…”

“That's certainly not my plan either, little brother. I'm sorry. No need to spoil the mood just now…”

“No need to spoil it at all! We will work something out. Smart as we are…”

“Yes. Get it over with, love. Call him. If he's up already.”

“He's always up very early. That's the soldier in him.”

Mycroft nodded and got up. “I'll take care of our breakfast in the meantime.” Sherlock giggled and he narrowed his eyes. But then he grinned, remembering the state he was in – wearing a cashmere pullover and a scarf and nothing else. “I will have to teach you some manners, little brother, like respect for your distinguished old man.” He wiggled his naked arse, his long cock bobbing around, and Sherlock almost choked on his laughter.

Mycroft came back with a wide grin to peck his nose. “Rude boy.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He pulled at Mycroft's cock, making him yelp. “Make sure to bring our breakfast here, old man! I want my dessert!”

Mycroft looked as if he was close to fainting, and Sherlock blushed. He hadn’t meant it quite like this. But then… His own dick started to raise its head at the picture.

“I better go now,” Mycroft said in a slightly shaky voice. “Before you have phone sex with your doctor after getting all horny…”

“I am horny but I’ll save the sex for you,” Sherlock assured him, and they shared a smile before Mycroft left him alone after slipping into home pants, but he kept the pullover and the scarf on even though it was way too warm in the house for them. It made Sherlock very happy.

°°° °°°

He came back from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He had planned to call John at once but then decided to give him a few more minutes, just in case he had gotten drunk on Christmas Eve, which wasn’t that probable given Harry’s condition but not entirely impossible, and had had a quick shower, a thorough brushing of his teeth and a shave with Mycroft’s electric razor. It had given him a special little thrill to use it.

So fifteen minutes after Mycroft had left to go downstairs, he switched on his phone to find a message from John, asking how things were going. He smiled and dialled his friend’s number.

_“Hey, Sherlock! Glad you’re calling! How are you two coping?”_

“Um, good, really. Listen John – it was a misunderstanding. He’s not ill…”

_“What?! Damn! I mean that’s great but how did that happen?”_

And Sherlock explained what had really been behind this phone call he had heard, and John listened closely.

_“Fuck, man, you can really call that an epic misunderstanding… So… How's it going then? Will you stay with him or come back?”_

“I'll stay. And… I'll spend New Year's Eve with him, too… He's still kind of shaken because of this betrayal.”

_“Yeah, I can imagine… This guy… He wasn't… his lover or anything?”_

“No! Why do you ask?”

_“Well, I mean, I have hardly met your brother but… he seemed rather… gay to me. So I just supposed he's so upset because they had some other kind of relationship.”_

“They did not,” Sherlock said with more force than he had wanted to and pushed against his pillow rather impatiently.

_“Oh, fine. Then he should get over it sooner.”_

“Yes… But... You know he called himself my arch enemy. Which was stupid of course but we didn’t get along for a very long time.”

 _“Hard to miss! And you both don't want that anymore,”_ John concluded.

“Exactly. So… I want to spend more time with him so we can get things fixed between us…”

_“That's awesome! Harry and I will do the same… She's lonely without Clara, you know. And we did talk a lot last night. Like you did, probably.”_

It certainly hadn't been quite like Sherlock's and Mycroft's… conversation… At least Sherlock didn’t think so. “Yes, right. But we'll need to do that some more.”

_“Of course you do. No need to apologise for that!”_

“I didn’t!”

_“Not with the exact words but… It's totally fine. You should ask him to come over from time to time. I'd like to get to know your brother better.”_

“You do?”

_“Yes. And perhaps Harry is up to doing the same. Hehe, shame we can't set them up with each other…”_

“What?!”

_“Hey, don't shout in my ear! It was a joke! A gay man and a lesbian, of course it wouldn’t work.”_

Sherlock forced himself to laugh a bit even though the sheer thought of his brother with someone else was killing him. “Yes, that would be a bit too much…” he said rather lamely. “Anyway… We'll see each other on the 27th then.”

_“You really think you two'll get along for two more days?”_

“Yes. He's… not as bad as I thought he was.”

_“Of course he isn’t. He's your brother after all.”_

Sherlock smiled. “Only you can mean that as a compliment.”

_“Oh, that's not quite true. Mrs Hudson adores you. Greg definitely respects you.”_

“Who?”

_“Lestrade! And Molly…”_

Sherlock sighed.

John chuckled _. “I know, I know. Pretty desperate, that girl. One more person who misses the obvious.”_

“Which is?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

_“Well, that's you're gay, too!”_

“Oh…”

_“You told me on our first day, Sherlock. 'Girlfriends – not really my area'. What else was that supposed to mean?”_

“Right. Well, it is true of course. Runs in the family. I could tell you stories about our uncle Rudi…”

_“Oh, I'll remind you to do that! I think I've got to go now, Harry's made breakfast.”_

“So has Mycroft.” Damn!

 _“Really? Now that's a picture! Brings it to your bed, right?”_ John said with a giggle which stopped at once when Sherlock choked on his spit. _“He does?”_

And in this moment Mycroft came through the door, carrying a tray, and the inevitable noise of a cup shivering on a slippery saucer echoed through the room. He grimaced sheepishly and Sherlock’s heart missed a beat.

 _“Oh…”_ John said. _“Oh!”_

“John…”

_“Oh….”_

“Can you say something else?” Sherlock blurted, blushing furiously.

Mycroft came closer, and Sherlock vaguely registered that he had apparently showered and shaved in a second bathroom. Sherlock also registered that his brother looked as if he had just suffered a stroke.

_“Um… Wow…”_

Why the hell had he drawn this unthinkable conclusion? And why had Sherlock made noise with his pillow! And why had he not reacted faster, making it all fine with joking around. But it was too late for that…

“John… Please…” Sherlock rasped out and Mycroft put the tray onto the nightstand and sat down next to him, his face ashen.

_“I'm fine! It's all fine!”_

“Is it?!”

_“Um, yes. Holmeses. Too clever for us mortals, right? Tell him there's no need to kidnap me again and dump me in the Thames.”_

“I believe they have more elegant ways to get rid of a _persona non grata_ ,” Sherlock mumbled, not even knowing what he was saying. Mycroft had come closer, putting his face next to Sherlock's so he could listen to the call.

_“Damn! Tell him he doesn’t have to do it! I won't tell anyone. Not ever!”_

“Tell them what?” Sherlock said, putting a slight threat into his voice and feeling only a tiny bit ashamed about it.

_“Nothing. There is nothing to tell! It's all good. You get along with your brother now. That's aces!”_

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look and Sherlock gave his brother a nod. When John said he would keep quiet, he would. John was his best friend. His only friend, apart from his brother now. Mycroft looked very sceptical but then he nodded, too.

“That's indeed very good, John. And I'm glad to hear about you and Harry.”

_“Me and… Well, yes. In a way. Not this way. All good, siblings and us, right?” John still sounded a bit hysterical._

Sherlock didn’t really blame him. “Yes, John. It's all like it should be. Do you still think Mycroft could visit us in Baker Street? To have tea with us, for example?”

Mycroft looked even more shocked but Sherlock finally slung his arm around his brother and kissed him noisily on the mouth, knowing John would hear the smooch.

_“Um, sure! Of course! He can come whenever he wants. Come over, I mean. Over to Baker Street, I mean!”_

At this desperate attempt at not making a pun Sherlock lost it. He started to giggle, and a moment later, John fell in, and Mycroft smiled with the shock finally leaving his eyes, and he visibly relaxed, pulling Sherlock close.

When Sherlock could speak again, he grew serious. “Thank you, John. You're a true friend.”

 _“Course I am,”_ John said, sounding completely calm now. Their mutual laughter had broken the tension. _“You can always count on me.”_

And now even Mycroft looked touched. “Thank you, Doctor Watson,” he spoke into the phone for the first time.

_“Not for that. Just be, you know, good to him.”_

“I will. Always.”

_“Yep. Because you worry about him constantly.”_

“I do.”

_“And you love him.”_

Mycroft swallowed. “Yes. I absolutely do.”

Sherlock beamed at him and got a rather exhausted looking wink.

_“Fine then. Well, I really got to go now. See you in two days, Sherlock.”_

“Yes. My regards to your sister. Have a good time.”

_“And you. Um…”_

They giggled again and Mycroft shook his head with an indulgent smile.

_“Oh, and Merry Christmas, Sherlock. And Mycroft.”_

“Yes, Merry Christmas, John.”

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Watson.”

When Sherlock had ended the connection, the brothers looked at each other. Sherlock felt he had to apologise for letting this happen even though it had not really been his fault. It had been nobody's fault. Well perhaps it _was_ his fault after all for letting John witness his deduction process… But Mycroft just smiled and kissed him, and snuggled up with each other they had breakfast, and Sherlock ate in wonder about being so lucky with both his best friend and his brother.

They had just finished eating when Mycroft's phone rang. “Oh. It's Mummy…”

“Fuck! I'll go downstairs!”

“Yes, it might be better,” Mycroft said with a wink. “But I'll tell her you're here. Make it just normal.”

“Yes. Perhaps the story works better for her…” He slipped into his trousers and shirt from the day before as he had left his bags downstairs.

“It has to! She will not accept it like he did!”

“Probably not… Tell her I'm out for a jog.”

Mycroft snorted. “Rather for a smoke…”

“Whatever! And hurry. I want to unwrap _my_ present.”

Mycroft frowned. “Which… Oh!”

“Yep. _You_ are my present.”

And with this Sherlock grabbed the tray and left his brother to Mummy's Christmas wishes and concern.

°°° °°°

When Sherlock returned after taking care of the dishes, which had been surprisingly relaxing, his brother was still on the phone. Sherlock put his bag with his clothes into a corner and rummaged in it to find something more comfortable to wear later, listening to his brother's rather desperate attempts at ending the call. He took out a t-shirt and home pants and put them onto a chair.

“Yes, Mummy, we will. (…) I will tell him, yes. (…) No, it's fine. (…) Greetings to Father!”

He rolled his eyes and Sherlock grinned and sat down on the bed again. He listened to Mycroft finally ending the call, wisely not touching him in any way.

“Damn…” Mycroft said when he ended the connection after a relieved 'Merry Christmas'. “Sometimes it really…” And then his phone rang again. “Damn!” He looked at the display. “It's Elizabeth.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What does she want on Christmas Day?! Call you into work?!”

“No, I don't think so. Just checking on me I guess. I'll make it swift.”

Sherlock nodded, knowing it was better to get it over with. He hoped Mycroft would switch off his phone afterwards so they wouldn’t be disturbed when they got to Sherlock's present…

“Good morning…” (…) No, you haven't. (…) Good. Better. (…) My brother came along. (…) No, in fact it is quite nice.”

Sherlock glared playfully at him and Mycroft gave him an apologetic shrug. But of course Sherlock knew was the way they had to go. Nobody except for John could be trusted with this knowledge. Perhaps Mrs Hudson, but they would have to see… But no matter how caring Mycroft's colleague might be – nobody in his work space could ever find out about them. They would have to be so very discreet. They could tell everybody they were getting along better now; there was no problem about that. But anything else was impossible.

He didn’t exactly like Mycroft's fond face during this phone call. He had liked the annoyed face better, and that had been with their own mother…

“Thank you for calling, Elizabeth. I hope you and your family have a lovely time.”

At least she had a family… But Sherlock still didn’t like it, as stupid as it was. His brother was _his_ lover and he was gay. He didn’t want anything from that woman…

“Hey, sorry it took a little longer,” Mycroft said carefully when he had hung up and indeed switched off his phone to Sherlock's delight.

Sherlock nodded. “It was nice of her to ask how you're doing.”

“Yes, it was. And that's it.”

“Damn. You can read me too well…”

“Sherlock. Nobody's getting between us!”

“I should hope so. I'm not into threesomes.”

Mycroft laughed. “No? That's a shame!”

Sherlock was all over him within the blink of an eye, tickling him and deftly avoided to be hit by wiggling elbows. “But I'm into twosomes, I think!”

“Yes?” Mycroft smiled from under him and Sherlock kissed him gently.

“Yes. Now? My present?”

“How do you want me?”

“Um… Touching, I think. And perhaps…” He licked his lips.

Mycroft blushed. “Oh. Yes. Very well. Unwrap me then. And perhaps… I should start with…” He licked his own lips and Sherlock giggled.

“Perhaps, yes. If you don't mind?”

“Mind? You're joking, right?”

Sherlock smiled and started unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and, at least he hoped, seductively. Mycroft's eyes were following his movements. He had really beautiful eyes, his big brother. And the pullover stressed their colour even more. Sherlock snorted.

“What?” Mycroft asked, sounding confused.

“Ah, nothing… I just thought that I bought this pullover, not even realising I chose it because it fits your eye colour.” He slipped out of his shirt.

Mycroft smiled. “A coincidence, perhaps?”

“What did you always say about coincidences?”

“Ah, yes. So it wasn't one.”

“No. My subconscious knew you would look stunning in it. But you know what…”

“No?”

“You look even more stunning without it!” And with this he urged his brother to raise his arms so he could pull the pullover over his head after freeing him from the scarf. His large left hand immediately slid over his brother's hairy chest, his forefinger poking at a hardly visible nipple.

“Mm! Nice…”

“Yes?” Sherlock pushed him into the pillow to hover over him. His fingers tweaked the now hard nipple, and Mycroft bit his lip. Sherlock grinned. “I bet I can make you get loud…”

“I won't take this bet, Sherlock…”

“Ha!” He lowered his head and kissed his brother's throat, then he licked down on it and then lapped at his collarbone.

Mycroft had started breathing a little faster, his hands finding Sherlock's shoulders, kneading them rather hard, which Sherlock definitely enjoyed.

He had never wasted a thought on how he would behave in bed with the lover he had been sure he would never have, but he now supposed he would not mind if things got a little rougher eventually. But of course this was all about exploring and reassuring and being kind and he enjoyed this just as much as he assumed he would enjoy something more forceful.

Mycroft loosened his grip, touching his hair instead while Sherlock took care of thoroughly worshipping his left nipple. He licked at the little nub through the wiry hair, making it stiffer, and then he turned his attention to the right one to give it the same treatment. And his hand blindly reached out to stroke Mycroft's hard shaft, gliding up and down on it.

His brother was panting now and Sherlock groaned when his finger touched wetness on the head of his cock when he rubbed over it. He couldn’t help but sniffing his finger and Mycroft chuckled.

“Always the scientist, little brother.”

“Yep. I like this smell.” Sherlock licked at his finger. “And this taste is awesome.” Musky and strange and a little bitter. But pleasant. And Mycroft's silky penis-skin… Warm, soft skin and hardness beneath it… Oh yes. This was very much to Mummy Holmes' younger son's liking…

He wanted to lick directly at the source but he didn’t mind being grabbed and laid on his back for now. Mycroft stuffed a pillow behind his neck and started his own tour of exploration. And Sherlock hoped and was actually convinced that Mummy Holmes' firstborn would like it as much as he did.

°°° °°°

In his rare previous encounters with men he had never bothered to find out anything about apart from them being healthy and safe in every possible way, Mycroft had never taken his time to explore them in any way. It had perhaps not quite been 'wham, bam, thank you sir' but it hadn't been far from it.

But this was as different from these meaningless, heartless attempts at finding physical pleasures in a life full of chores as it could get.

He took his time, kissing and nibbling at every inch of creamy skin he discovered. The soft spot behind Sherlock's ear. The earlobe itself. His jaw. His cheekbones. The spot between his eyes. Of course the soft, bow-like lips. He kissed his way down Sherlock's impossibly long neck, nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's pink left nipple and then licked and sucked it like his brother had done for him.

A low and constant groaning as well as slight wiggling was accompanying his pleasurable efforts, and he felt a lot of pride to make his beautiful brother react to his lips and tongue alone like this. It was a tad disturbing to imagine that John Watson knew about them now and perhaps right in this moment thought that they were doing this but he pushed the thought away. He should have known that John - who had shot a man for his brother merely hours after meeting him, who had refused Mycroft's money to spy on him and had in general shown so much loyalty to Sherlock already - would perhaps be a little shocked about the revelation but never give them away. The doctor was Sherlock's only real friend and not only in word but in deed as well.

Sherlock's breath got even faster when he kissed his stomach, drawing lines on the prominent, sculpted muscles he secretly envied Sherlock tremendously for, and then he sniffed at the navel and lapped at the fine line of black hair that led to his trimmed pubic hair.

“Did you use my shaver for it?” he asked casually and with a twinkle in his eyes, and Sherlock giggled.

“I'm afraid I did.”

“Fine with me…” Mycroft smirked and then he admired his main prize – Sherlock's thick, rock-hard cock, ready to be worshipped. And Mycroft unceremoniously swallowed it in one go, making his brother howl to the ceiling.

It wasn't as if he had much practice with it but he had found out a long time ago that his gag reflex was barely there. He wondered if it was because of his all-encompassing wish to control everything, even himself. But whatever the reason was, he made good use of this special talent. He let the big thing glide right down his throat and closed it around it, licking the base with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, damn, Mycroft!”

A long fingered hand grabbed his neck, desperately clutching on him, and Mycroft chuckled, which made Sherlock moan even louder as the vibration obviously felt very pleasant.

Mycroft pulled back just to repeat his actions and then Sherlock bucked up, making him almost choke, and then hot fluid splashed down his throat, and his brother cried out in utter ecstasy.

Carefully retreating, Mycroft watched Sherlock shudder through his orgasm, and he lay down next to him to pull him close. “Good?”

“Oh… Good?! That was… How could you do that?” Mycroft explained it to him and Sherlock shook his head. “I'll never be able to pull that off like this…”

“You don't have to; I'd never expect that. You don't even have to make use of your mouth at all if you…” He chuckled when Sherlock freed himself to slide down on the bed with an expression that could only be described as determined. “Really, little brother. It will be totally fine if you…”

“Shut up, Mycroft! No matter if I have to do that a million times, I will learn to do it as great as you did it!”

“Oh, I don't mind you trying all those million times,” Mycroft assured him. “But do nothing you don't enjoy.”

Sherlock grinned, his head close to Mycroft's swollen prick. “Always the protector.” He grimaced. “Yes. That's exactly what you've always been. And I was too stupid to see it…”

“Sherlock…”

“Sorry. But it's true.”

“You were never stupid. Rebellious, yes, but not stupid. I did try to protect you but I did it the wrong way… And this is not a competition. I probably shouldn’t have bragged so much…”

“You pleased me, tremendously. I want to please you, too. That's not competition. Well, maybe a bit…”

Mycroft smiled. “We're still brothers. Competition is probably just normal. Not that anything else about us was normal…”

“Certainly not that. Normal's boring.” And with this Sherlock lowered his head and started suckling at the crown of Mycroft's cock.

Mycroft slumped down in the pillows at a sensation so great it pulled all the strength out of his body. Sherlock's divine lips, his warm, wet tongue, the careful but firm sucking – he should have known Sherlock would be a natural talent as he was in every other thing he did.

He didn’t take Mycroft as deep as Mycroft had done for him but he managed to cover a little bit more of his long, massive cock with every passing minute. He even started to fondle Mycroft's hair-covered sack with his sensitive fingers and it felt heavenly.

Mycroft had closed his eyes at first but he soon opened them again to watch his baby brother worshipping him in the most forbidden and most arousing way. Sherlock's eyes showed deep concentration and a kind of devotion that made Mycroft's heart fill up with nothing but gratitude and love. He knew he would never let go of this, not as long as Sherlock was willing to be at his side. His hand reached out to gently stroking his hair, needing to make contact.

Sherlock had found his rhythm now and let him slide in and out of his mouth, and Mycroft could feel his completion coming closer.

“You might want to finish me with your hand now,” he said, not wanting Sherlock to go all the way at his first try.

But Sherlock just snorted around his cock and continued to suck him, and Mycroft lost it a moment later, all coherent thoughts leaving his brain, and then he came with a cry that was even louder than Sherlock's before, emptying his seed into his brother's still busily sucking mouth.

Sherlock gagged for just a moment but then he swallowed around Mycroft's cock, taking his enormous load with nothing but pride and bliss on his face.

“Come to me,” Mycroft finally brought out, and Sherlock let his softening dick glide out of his mouth and a moment later he was in Mycroft's arms, and the older man kissed his forehead. “Thank you, little brother. That was wonderful.”

“Yep. Not bad for the first try, huh?”

“Great, in fact!”

“Only about to get greater,” Sherlock assured him. “I want to do it all, Mycie. I want you to show me everything.”

“I would never say I know everything. But I'm very willing to try whatever two men can do with each other.” He was rather sure there would be a lot to discover.

“Sounds great to me… Merry Christmas, brother mine.”

“Yes. This is really a wonderful Christmas, Sherlock.”

It had started so bad, and Mycroft couldn’t help but think about the sad affair that had brought Sherlock to his house in the first place. He had not forgotten about it and he knew when he returned to his job, he would have to deal with it again but now he had something to look forward to. His life and his thoughts had been dominated by his job, and it would of course still require a lot of energy and dedication. But he would never let Sherlock down again. This was the most fantastic thing to have happened to him and he would hold onto it with all he had.

“I love you, Sherlock.” He had told him before, and he only now realised that Sherlock had not.

His brother seemed to think the same. He raised his hand to lay it onto his cheek. “I love you, Mycie.”

Mycroft smiled. “And will you also love ghastly old Mycroft, sometimes thinking of his job at home?”

“I will, God help me. I might kick his arse though if he neglects me for his sodding job.”

“Your language is horrible, little brother. But I see what you mean. Do that. He needs you to take care of him and tell him if he exaggerates it.”

“I will. As long as I may spend my nights with Mycie.”

“Well… Perhaps it won't be every night,” Mycroft said carefully, knowing both his and Sherlock's job would make that impossible. It was better to face the facts at once.

His brother conceded this and nodded. “Perhaps not. But as many as we can?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I won't give you a hard time if your job gets in the way. Well, perhaps I will but I won’t mean any harm.”

“So might yours… Scotland Yard knocks on your door at any time of day.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grimaced. “It better won't. But yes. It might happen, very rarely.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will have to go outside the country from time to time. But only for a day or two then.”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must.” He slapped Mycroft's arm. “I'm a big boy. I know the facts of life. And your job.”

“I will always just be a phone call or a text away.”

“And if you need me for anything, you know where to find me.” He snuggled his face against Mycroft's neck again, and Mycroft stroked his shoulder.

“What would you like to do now? Take a walk?” It was a sunny day, too warm for Christmas Day but the rain of the previous day was gone.

“Nope. Want more presents.”

“What, now?!” Mycroft gasped.

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “You said you would show me. Now is a good time to start. So more sex, please.”

Mycroft grinned and shook his head. “You're going to wear me out on the first day!”

“Ah! I will cook for you and recharge you.”

“Sounds good. Okay then. Let's have more sex.”

There were definitely worse way to pass Christmas Day than to make love to his incomparable baby brother, the most stunning man on earth.

The End


End file.
